


A Boy and His Broom

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Secret Snarry Swap 2016, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: When Harry joins the Wasps as second reserve Seeker, he brings with him a broom that Professor McGonagall gifted him. He knows it’s a special broom, but he has no idea just how special.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A great prompt for my favorite fest. Thanks to the fabulous mods and all those who helped make it happen. Happy holidays!
> 
> Written for Prompt #33 from Antuhsa: Snape has accidentally been turned into a racing broom, just as Harry is in need of a new one.

In the long months between loss of awareness and the slow return of his senses, Severus slept.

Merlin knows he needed the sleep. Keeping Hogwarts in tip-top operating condition with the Dark Lord breathing down his neck and a hundred rogue students camping out in the Room of Requirement had not left a lot of time for afternoon naps or sleeping in on Sundays. He’d survived that year on a few hours a night, a steady supply of Pepper-up Potion and coffee so strong the spoon stood up straight when left in the mug.

And while he’d done a good bit of sleeping in St. Mungo’s and then in the Hogwarts infirmary, that sleep came with all the attendant annoyances of being infirm. Pain. Intense pain, at times, and healers at the blasted hospital who thought a bit of pain was better than the side effects of several months of Class Five pain potions. 

And on top of that was the lack of privacy, the unwanted attention of the mediwitch with her prodding and prying and measuring, and the noise and distraction of the castle reconstruction. 

He’d only spent a month in St. Mungo’s before being transferred to Hogwarts for his own protection. Coincidentally, or not, Potter chose that exact time to collapse while working on grounds clean-up. Poppy determined that he was suffering from exhaustion and was dangerously thin, and moved him into the infirmary, where he seemed to have a constant stream of visitors, day and night.

So sleep was a blessed relief, especially given his unusual circumstances. But there was only so much sleep a man could tolerate, even a man who wasn’t quite a man anymore, and slowly, gradually, Severus began to wake up.

At first, he thought he was dreaming.

He had to be dreaming. The sensation was so – well, so _pleasant_.

A rush of wind through his hair. A peculiar but oh-so-comforting heavy warmth on his neck and chest. A sense of security, that he was wrapped in the arms of someone who loved him and held him dear.

It was a good thing he was dreaming. He’d _never_ have tolerated that, or called it pleasant, in his waking hours.

The massages, however, could not have been a dream.

He enjoyed those most – the firm hand that rubbed up and down his spine, using an oil he could almost – almost – smell. The hand didn’t miss a single spot of skin, a single appendage or muscle group. He coveted those hands so much that in his dreams, they gripped him about the groin, and there was always a ghost of moist air, a lover’s exhale, nearly kissing the crown of his member.

He didn’t seem to mind being naked.

It was a surprise – and a welcome one indeed – when his hearing returned.

Surprise, however, turned quickly into shock, and then into disbelief.

He was still paralyzed – or better said, immobilized – and couldn’t open his eyes to verify that what his ears delivered to his brain was real. A paralyzed man, he realized, would have no feeling and he very definitely could feel every touch to his body. What his body was telling him was that someone was massaging and caressing him, running hands lovingly up and down his frame, massaging his scalp, trimming his hair….

Wait.

Trimming his _hair_?

No. Not trimming. _Snipping_. Snipping off the ends of his hair with a loving hand, all the while caressing his head and whispering. Whispering.

Whispering in Harry Potter’s voice.

Which wasn’t right, of course. Not right at all.

His first reaction, after the requisite and quite expected shock and disbelief, was a deep-rooted panic. Potter was dead. Therefore he, Severus, must be dead. And as Saint Potter very obviously would not have landed in Hades, he, Severus, couldn’t be there, either.

Unless – unless, Hades wasn’t a place at all, at least in the traditional sense. Could Potter’s reward be Severus’ punishment?

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s just hurt because things didn’t work out with us, you know. She’s been talking to Hermione, and you know how Hermione is.” He laughed, but it was a small and bitter sound. “No, actually, you probably don’t. She’s always saying I’m obsessed with you. Or I was. While you were around. I mean alive. And yeah – she was right - _is_ right – in a way. I was obsessed with you because you were such a dick. Couldn’t for the life of me figure out why you hated me. Might have been useful to know you blamed me for her death.”

He huffed, and Severus thought about sticking a finger in his ear to clean out the wax, but quickly remembered that if he had fingers, he couldn’t feel them, or move them, and he was seriously beginning to wonder if he even had an ear, despite the fact he was clearly hearing Harry Potter speak. If he did have an ear, it was most likely full of massage oil. Nevertheless, ear or no, he had just heard Harry Potter say that he – Severus – blamed him for Lily’s death.

Which was not, of course, accurate in the least. Oh, true enough, Lily certainly wouldn’t have died had she not had Harry. But prophesies were tricky things, quite unpredictable, and he certainly couldn’t fault Harry for causing his mother’s death. Not really. No matter how he might have felt all those years before when he’d clutched her lifeless body to him while Harry bawled, alone, hurt and scared, in his cot.

He felt a bit guilty about that part, truth be told. But he’d been overwhelmed with grief in the moment, and Dumbledore had turned up to take care of the child, if dropping him into the unwilling Muggle arms of Petunia and Vernon Dursley constituted “care.”

His thoughts were always drifting these days – but in a vague, dreamy sort of way, and he couldn’t keep them bitter and snarky for long before he once again relaxed into a slightly-drugged state, as if he was verging on a state of pleasant near-intoxication. With an effort, he wrestled his focus back to the present, where Harry Potter continued his one-sided conversation. 

“I’m sorry Gin got hold of your broom. I promised Minerva I’d take good care of it, and treat it gently, being as it’s nearly as old as you are. Honestly, I can’t believe she gave it to me. It’s a classic.” He paused, and Severus felt a satisfying pressure on his arse, then the thrill of a finger running up his cleft. He quivered involuntarily, or thought he did, or might have, then gave the petrified equivalent of a shudder as he realized exactly whose hands were caressing – no, _molesting_ \- him.

“Potter! Cease and desist your lascivious behavior immediately!” he exclaimed.

Except no sound issued forth from his throat, or lack thereof. He reached inside himself for some thread of inner calm, taking deep breaths – virtual though they were – and letting them out slowly. He tuned out Potter’s rambling about Ginny Weasley and Quidditch and brooms as he turned over what he knew about his situation, his awakening awareness and senses, while Potter kept droning on and on and on about … about … about ….

Sweet Merlin’s hightops! Quidditch! Brooms! He was trapped inside a broom!

He was a Horcrux!

There was no other explanation – was there?

In a veritable near-panic now, as he couldn’t quite muster full-blown panic, he searched his brain. (Did he have a brain?) What was the last thing he remembered? He definitely didn’t recall deliberately murdering anyone, particularly with the intention of splitting his own soul to achieve immortality. He was successful in recalling quite a bit after he should have died in the Shrieking Shack, in fact. Widget arriving just in the nick of time to administer the anti-venom and coagulant he’d left with her. No. He didn’t remember that, actually, as he was unconscious at the time, but he did remember waking in Aberforth Dumbledore’s hovel, then, when the dust settled a bit, the exceedingly unpleasant experience of being Portkeyed to St. Mungo’s.

Yes. He recalled St. Mungo’s quite clearly. The painful regrowth of skin and tissue. The visits from Minerva, keeping him apprised of the turbulent goings-on in post-Dark Lord Wizarding world. The decision to move him back to Hogwarts – for his own safety, she said. Hmmm. That bore more examination.

Ah. Hogwarts. Potter. Not dead. Decidedly not dead. He recalled Potter sitting beside his bed, strangely silent, reaching out with tentative fingers to touch the back of his hand. Recalled the peaceful, beatific smile on his face. Remembered seething inside, wanting to tell the boy that he – Snape – wasn’t about to take on the role of hero after all these years of playing the villain so flawlessly.

Wanting to wipe that smile off the boy’s face.

Permanently.

_No._

No, he didn’t. Couldn’t have.

He couldn’t possibly have murdered Potter and created a Horcrux in the process. That simply didn’t happen without a plan and, as annoying as Potter was, as much as he’d gotten under Severus’ skin, he didn’t wish him dead. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Besides – consciousness didn’t flake off one’s self and attach to one’s miserably split soul, did it?

No. He wasn’t a Horcrux. Couldn’t be. But with every new comment from Potter, with every new sensation felt on his – well, body was hardly the word for it, was it? – Severus determined that he wasn’t himself. And it was ridiculous – utterly ridiculous – to think he was anything else. Such as a broom.

He decided to hum to himself, and he did so until Potter’s words blurred and faded at the edges, and he lulled himself back into a pleasant and restful sleep.

ooOOOoo

He had no idea how long he slept - minutes or hours or even days – but he awoke to the sound of voices and to a horribly unpleasant taste clinging to his tongue and to the inside of his mouth.

His attempts to gag and spit were unsuccessful and unproductive. The taste – could furniture polish possibly taste like ash and sour cherries? – remained with him, and from time to time, even as he enjoyed one of the gentle massages he’d grown to love, more of the polish would be deposited directly on his lips and tongue.

In the end, he imagined his mouth tightly shut, and did his best to enjoy the massage while straining to hear the conversation going on in the room.

“He’s not dead, Ron. I saw him in the infirmary. We talked. Well, I talked to him. He just glared at me and rolled his eyes a lot. But he wasn’t _dead_. He was getting better.”

“Well, then where is he? And why would McGonagall give you his broom if he isn’t even dead?”

“She said he wanted me to have it,” Harry muttered. “I told you that already. And she knew I was joining the Wasps….”

“Second reserve Seeker,” Weasley pointed out.

Potter laughed. “You’re just mad because I took a couple years off before joining the Aurors with you.” A hand ran down his spine, tickling Severus’ side. “And you’ve got a point, you know. McGonagall knew the broom would be safe with me – it’s not like I’ll actually be playing in a match.”

“You couldn’t use it even if you did, mate.” Severus was startled out of a comfortable lethargy as something wrapped sharply on his skull. “It’s not regulation.”

The hand on his back returned, caressing almost reassuringly. “It might not be regulation but it’s wickedly fast,” Harry boasted.

“This old thing?” Another sharp wrap on his skull. Severus mentally deducted a hundred points from Gryffindor just on principle.

“Hey!” The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he was suddenly lifted high then dropped. He landed with a gentle bounce and roll, coming to rest on his stomach, nose pressed into something soft and warm, hair tangled over his shoulders.

“Would you leave my broom alone!” Potter shouted.

Severus, for his part, unable to breathe with his proboscis pressed into the tangled bedclothes, quickly panicked, hyperventilated, and lost consciousness.

ooOOOoo

Some time later, when Severus woke from a very long sleep filled with dreams of nude Greco-Roman wrestlers, he nearly gagged – or would have, had he had a proper mouth – at the smell assaulting him.

He couldn’t know that Potter was asleep on his bed six feet away or that he’d piled his sweaty, rumpled training clothes in a corner and set the broom atop them, clearing the bed so he could sleep. 

Severus took a quick self-assessment, realising, with very little self-examination, that he’d now recovered four of his five senses. And while it was unfortunate that smell had returned while he was knee-deep in sweaty jock straps, the gradual return of senses indicated that his body was awakening from whatever sleep or hibernation it had entered. If he could feel touch, he would eventually be able to move and break free of this odd wooden prison. If he could taste and hear and smell, sight must be just around the corner.

Since the dawn of realisation that he was, in fact, a broom, or trapped inside a broom, or that his consciousness had been transferred to a broom while his body languished in some Hogwarts dungeon, kept alive by the ministrations of industrious house-elves, he found that panic and helplessness, when they threatened, never really took hold. Instead of panicking about his lack of vision, he satisfied himself with listening. 

He was definitely in Harry Potter’s bedroom. Where that bedroom was he couldn’t say, though it seemed to have a revolving door open to a wide assortment of people including Ministry officials, Hogwarts staff, Potter’s friends and teammates, and Weasleys. Potter was most assuredly sliding by in a cushy, throw-away position with the Wimbourne Wasps. He’d heard enough references to this, enough arguments with Granger and Weasley, and one cat fight with Ginny Weasley, who was playing professionally herself. Or perhaps it hadn’t been a cat fight. There’d been a good deal of grunting, and groaning, and whining, and then a flurry of slaps, muttered apologies, and crying.

He was relatively certain the crying had come from Potter.

The most revealing, and concerning, conversation he’d overheard was between Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt. They’d been in the middle of a tense and hushed conversation when they came into the room, and Severus only overheard the last few minutes.

“Kingsley – really. I’ve told you everything I know. I saw him a few months ago at Hogwarts, before I joined the Wasps. Professor McGonagall said he was on the road to a full recovery.”

“And you’ve not seen him since. No owls? No communication of any sort?”

“No! Of course not! We’re not pen pals, Kingsley! Do you really think Snape would write to me? He’s glad to be rid of me!”

“And Minerva – Professor McGonagall – did she give you any indication – any indication at all – that she intended to move him? That she feared for his safety?”

“No! No. I was in the infirmary with him for a while – and then she let me in to see him whenever I asked. What’s this all about, anyway? Did something happen to Snape?”

The bed squeaked as Kingsley sat down on it. Severus could hear his deep sigh and imagined him wiping the perspiration off his face. “We don’t know, Harry. That’s why I’m here. We sent a healer from St. Mungo’s to Hogwarts to assess whether he was physically fit to stand trial, and - ”

“Trial?” The bed springs squeaked again as Potter jumped up, apparently outraged on Snape’s behalf. Interesting. “You’ve got to be kidding! Kingsley – there’s not going to be a trial. You promised. You _swore_ to me when I gave you those memories!”

“Harry – calm down! It’s just a formality. There’s a faction – a small faction, mind you – that are insisting he be treated like all the other Death Eaters.”

Wait – memories?

“Right.” Potter’s voice was stony. “So I suppose he’s gone missing, then. Good for him. Probably got wind of your plans. And like I told you before, I haven’t heard from him.”

“And if you do? If he contacts you?”

There was a long silence and Severus cursed his missing fifth sense.

“Right. Then we understand each other.”

That was Kingsley. The bed creaked again and a moment later, the door shut.

“Great. Just great.” Potter was apparently unhappy. He flopped down on the bed – Severus heard the springs creak yet again. He was breathing heavily, and after a few minutes, he got up and grabbed Severus by the neck and stomped out of the room again.

Well, this was different. He’d spent altogether too much time in that stuffy room and welcomed a change of pace. Potter had a lot of excess energy to dispel, and did it best, Severus had learned, with a broom between his legs and the wind in his sails. 

Fortunately, Severus loved to fly and nothing turned his frown upside down like a belly-dropping step off a tall building.

He was tired of thinking. He’d had ample time, propped up in the very uninteresting corner, to analyze his particular situation and make rather firm conclusions. 

Point number one - he had, of course, determined that his consciousness had somehow become trapped inside a broom. He’d briefly considered the Horcrux possibility, and summarily discarded it, and the unlikely possibility that he’d somehow been transfigured into a broom. 

Point number two - Potter believed the broom had belonged to him, but Severus hadn’t owned his own broom in years. Minerva had given the broom to Potter, had told him to take good care of it. Had entrusted Potter with it. From what he’d pieced together, Potter had been with the Wasps only a few months, and it had to be at least a year after the Battle as the Weasley girl was playing professional Quidditch as well, and she was a year behind Potter. As the last conscious memories he had were from the Hogwarts infirmary, it stood to reason that whatever had happened to him had happened at Hogwarts.

And had involved Minerva.

Which opened up oh so many more possibilities he really didn’t want to entertain.

Only a witch as powerful as Minerva could take on such a perilous and ridiculous effort, and Severus would not allow himself to believe that she’d risk his life by effecting an animate/inanimate transfiguration AND giving said inanimate object to Potter to tuck between his firm thighs and crash into trees.

He held onto the internal debate over his mind meld with a sturdy flying stick for however long it took Potter to permanently break up with Ginny Weasley and pound his head against the wall repeatedly muttering, “I’m not gay – I like girls. I’m not gay – I like girls,” and concluded that Potter himself had been at the root of a flub-up of colossal proportions that resulted in his consciousness being merged with a racing broom. But even that theory lost its luster as days passed and he found himself beginning to seriously consider a deliberate act of malice – or protection – with Minerva McGonagall heavily involved.

But his mental sleuthing derailed when his sight returned.

He hadn’t opened his eyes consciously. He didn’t, in fact, actually _have_ eyes, not in the traditional sense. One moment he was thinking thoughts while trying to ignore the smell of stale cigarette smoke in the room – he knew Potter had been out clubbing the night before, as the boy had picked him up and danced with him when he came home, yammering on drunkenly and spinning him until he was dizzy and nauseated – and the next, a diffused light hit the back of his eyeballs. Well, one of his eyeballs, anyway. They seemed to be positioned very oddly so that they were not actually pointing in the same direction, and he had to close one eye and use only one at a time in order to make any sense of what he was seeing.

And what he was seeing was both surprising and uncomfortably stimulating. 

Naked Harry Potter.

 _Upside down_ naked Harry Potter.

His eyes, it turned out, were situated below his hair, which must have roughly corresponded to the twigs making up the broom’s tail. His view was partially obstructed by the broom’s saddle, which fortunately was racing style, long and narrow. As the broom seemed to be propped up in the corner of the room, Severus’ view was, indeed, upside down. 

Potter was standing next to his bed with a wet towel around his ankles. The beads of water dripping over his plump cock were defying gravity and running uphill, puddling together at the tip before flying upward and splattering on the ceiling.

Severus allowed his newly conscious eye to travel down past a healthy patch of pubic hair, over a toned abdomen, past a small, dark nipple, and rest at last on upside down almond-shaped green eyes. Potter, looking far older and far healthier than Severus remembered. 

This was a Potter transformed. A Potter no longer a child.

It was the first time he’d looked at Potter and not immediately lost all sense of Lily in an overpowering James.

This, he suddenly realised, was the first time he’d actually seen _Harry_.

Damn shame, given Potter’s current state of dress, that he had to be stuck inside a broom. 

Potter put on a pair of blue briefs, then rooted through a drawer for a t-shirt. He pulled it over his head, then grabbed a pair of old athletic shorts and stepped into them. He picked up a pair of socks and his trainers, then plopped onto the floor beside Severus to finish dressing.

“I don’t know what’s going on at the Ministry and Hogwarts,” he muttered, “but Kingsley is still acting weird and McGonagall isn’t telling me anything.” He tied a shoelace aggressively. “Don’t worry about Severus, Harry. He’s perfectly fine,” he said in an absolutely deplorable Scottish brogue. “You just have fun with the Wasps and take care of that broom for me.” He snorted. “For _me_. Why should she care about Snape’s broom? Oh – I’m sorry. _Severus’_.” He said the name in a sing-song voice, and Severus narrowed his gaze, which, given the odd placement of his eyes, gave him a bit of vertigo.

Potter stood, then grabbed Severus about the waist and hoisted him over a shoulder. His left eye was pointing down now, and he had a good view of Potter’s arse, which filled his athletic shorts nicely. 

“Shit, I’m going to be late again,” Potter muttered.

And without further warning, he spun on the spot and disappeared, taking a very surprised Severus Snape with him.

ooOOOoo

Apparently, Severus didn’t tolerate Apparition well in broom form. Perhaps his lungs were too compressed, or perhaps his position leaning in the corner for so long had made too much blood rush to his head. In any event, by the time he regained his senses, he was already wedged between Potter’s legs, nose more or less up the young man’s arse. The wind was in his hair and Potter’s hands were clasped around his shaft.

Oh. Well well well. That was nice. _Very_ nice. It almost compensated for the unpleasant weight on his face.

He felt a twinge then, on his nose, an itch he couldn’t scratch because, try as he might, his arms and hands did not respond to his mental commands. Another twinge, followed by an itch, then a twinge, and another.

“Hey!” shouted Potter. Severus felt the wind in his hair change intensity and knew the broom had veered off course.

“Watch it, Harry!” someone yelled.

The arse on his face shifted, the cheeks lifting up as Harry apparently leaned forward, placing more weight on his hands. Severus gave an involuntary, silent groan as those hands tightened around his shaft. With the slightly altered position, there was more air circulating around his nose, but his head was still filled with a most pleasant and heady masculine aroma.

His nose twitched again.

“Arrgh! What the ...?”

Potter was twitching around on the broom now, inching first forward, then back, then lifting his arse off the broom a few millimeters. He settled down again, then shifted his weight, groaning under his breath in the wind. It was a deep, sensual sound that Severus found rather stimulating. Potter’s hands, gripping the broom shaft in the most inconvenient of places, or perhaps convenient, if Severus were being completely honest with himself, held on with a death grip.

Severus inhaled deeply. Flying, he thought, was one of the most pleasant experiences in life. He’d have to show Potter how to do it without a broom one day.

Wait wait wait wait wait.

Had his constant exposure to Potter since his awakening addled his brain? Had he just mentally determined to spend even more time with Potter once he was restored to his former corporeal form?

Potter adjusted his arse again, shifting in such a way that Severus’ nose seemed to settle between his arse cheeks through the lightweight shorts. And that in itself seemed odd, because he didn’t have a body, and thus, a nose, as he was, in fact, a broom.

A broom that could hear, and feel, and taste, and smell, and even see – though at present, his eyes were closed as opening the left gave him an eyeful of nothing as it was pressed into Potter’s arse and opening his right gave him vertigo as it was pointed straight down during a fast-paced pick-up Quidditch match.

Well, he thought, in his now typical acceptance of factors he absolutely couldn’t control, there was nothing for it, so he may as well relax and enjoy the sensation of the wind in his hair and Potter’s hands caressing his bollocks.

Regrettably, the match ended a short while later when Potter caught the Snitch and landed amidst a group hug that nearly smothered Severus. He risked opening an eye a few minutes later when the noise had abated, and found himself staring into an open toilet.

“What the _hell_?” Potter was muttering. He was running two fingers up and down over Severus’ nose, except that brooms didn’t have noses. “Where did _this_ come from?” The fingers squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I swear there’s something wonky with this broom.” 

A loud pounding interrupted Potter’s examination. “Harry – people are waiting out here!” someone exclaimed.

“All these kids and a rambling house and you’d think someone would have thought to put in another bathroom,” Potter grumbled. A hand came into Severus’ myopic line of sight and pulled the end of a chain that was dangling beside the toilet. The water spun around, then flushed with an enormous gurgle.

“Geez, Harry, taking your broom to the loo, now, are you? Something you want to tell us?” 

Severus closed the eye that had been looking into the toilet and opened the other. Had he been able to scream, he most certainly would have. He was looking directly into a flesh-lined hole filled with what looked like off-colour cheese curds.

“Says the bloke who sleeps with his Quidditch bat,” Potter said. “All yours, George.”

Well, that explained the hole where an ear should be. Severus, for the first time, was actually relieved to be a broom. 

By the end of the afternoon, Severus was very happy that Potter didn’t have time to play a lot of pick-up Quidditch, and that he was oddly protective of his new broom. He didn’t let anyone else ride it, save Charlie Weasley, who really put Severus through his paces even though his dungarees smelled of dragon dung. Severus was eternally grateful that he hadn’t had to suffer having his nose shoved into Ginny Weasley’s crotch. 

He had interesting one-eyed views, slanted, upside-down and otherwise, of various Weasleys, but was most interested to see that Arthur and Molly, watching from the sidelines, appeared to have aged considerably. Had more time gone by than he’d estimated?

After the memorable Quidditch match at the Burrow, he spent more days than he could count propped back in the corner of Potter’s bedroom with only occasional pop-ins by Potter. The boy wasn’t very communicative – his penchant for talking to himself, or addressing his thoughts out loud to the broom, seemed to be waning. Severus did learn, through an overheard conversation, that the Quidditch season was in full swing now and Potter was being mobbed by fans even though he seldom left the bench. He was certainly drawing in the crowds, and since he had nothing better to do, the Wasps were making him sign autographs and pose for photos before home games.

One day, Potter stomped into the room cursing and muttering under his breath. He tossed something on his bed then stripped off his Quidditch robes and kicked some dirty clothes around the room. A sock which needed to be incinerated, given its stiffness and aroma, landed on Severus’ shaft and, instead of sliding down the polished wood, stuck where it was.

The mysteriously gravity-resisting sock caught Potter’s attention even through his strop.

“What in the name of Merlin’s tackle?” The boy’s language was steadily becoming more colourful. Severus rather enjoyed the creative cursing. Severus squinted to see through a couple of errant twigs and saw Potter approaching with hand outstretched.

As he watched, Potter snatched the sock off, and Severus’ felt a pleasant gust of air over his bollocks.

“Fuuuuck.”

Cursing, yes. Creative, no.

Potter dropped onto the floor, blinking large green eyes behind his glasses. “Where did _those_ come from?”

He was staring straight at Severus’ midsection, or what he thought of as his midsection, in any event, and, as Severus watched, he reached forward with his right hand, index finger extended, and stroked lightly over his shaft.

Well, that was nice. Very nice indeed. Severus wasn’t even affronted by the deliberate invasion of his personal space.

“That can’t be what it looks like. It can’t be. Brooms don’t – they _don’t_. Even magical brooms. With spells. They _can’t_!”

He reached out again, but this time he grasped one of Severus’ bollocks and squeezed. Hard. Severus nearly passed out. He had no recourse but to try deep breathing but had he had legs, he’d have kicked Potter in the groin before they collapsed from under him. All the rather pleasant thoughts he’d been having about Harry Potter after having seen him prance around his room naked, and after having his arse on his face as he flew, suddenly soured just a little bit. Fortunately, his rather sturdy wooden bollocks recovered faster than flesh and blood and the pain soon faded as he focused on Potter trying to puzzle out what was going on. Idiot boy. Obviously, the transfiguration spell was beginning to wear off.

“Wood doesn’t just grow,” Potter said, seemingly oblivious of the pain he’d been imparting. “I mean – dead wood. _Broom_ wood.” Severus was having a very hard time focusing the eye that faced the room to see what Potter was doing. He had an idea he didn’t really want to know, as it was impossible to ward off his advances or to brace himself for the assault.

“Finite Incantatem!” 

Ah, it was wands now, Severus thought as his entire body tingled less-than-pleasantly. It felt like the Cruciatus without the torturous pain. It felt like resisting the Imperius. It felt like the initial effects of the Polyjuice Potion as skin boiled and bubbled.

And then, it was over. 

“Alright. You’re a broom – _it’s_ just a broom.” Severus could hear the near panic in Potter’s voice. He was vaguely aware that he was remaining incredibly calm for a man stuck inside a broom at the mercy of a confused wizard with a pointed wand, but frankly, he couldn’t be too arsed to care. “Brooms don’t have – don’t have _bollocks_ ….so those… _things_ …aren’t. Bollocks.”

Another long silence followed, and Severus spent that time trying to point his right eye down the shaft of the broom to examine his bollocks. It was nearly impossible to focus, but with concerted effort, he was able to see a woody swelling mid-shaft that looked decidedly out of place on a racing broom.

“Engorgio!”

Well, that was a surprise. The spell hit him directly on the bollocks in question and with it, once again, the tingly sensation, this time starting rather pleasantly in his groin and radiating outward. He idly thought that his bollocks were already larger than strictly necessary, not that Potter had any way of knowing that, and he’d had a very firm policy all his life of keeping his reproductive organs their original size and shape so as to not accidentally lose any functionality.

“Hey!” 

Oh my. Potter was very definitely fondling him. He had both hands on Severus’ bollocks and was running them up and down, gently squeezing, kneading, cupping, caressing. Finally, the hands fell away, much to Severus’ distress – he had been quite enjoying the unexpected and not-quite-amateur hand job. 

“That should have worked. Why didn’t it work? They’re exactly the same as they were before.”

Then, while Severus watched, Potter shucked his robes and changed into Muggle jeans and a too-tight t-shirt through which Severus, even one-eyed, could see the peaks of his small, dusky nipples. 

Small dusky nipples? Severus gave himself a mild talking to for using adjectives when they clearly were not needed. They were _nipples_ , not small or dusky or pert or rosy or bitten or swollen or sensitive. He gave himself a virtual shake and focused on Potter again.

Harry cleaned the dirty clothes off his bed and dropped them in front of Severus. The clothes landed with a plop but the newspaper he’d grabbed with the clothing fluttered down more slowly and landed on top of the pile more or less eye level with Severus.

Potter was muttering something about Granger - _Hermione will know. She_ always _knows …_. But Severus’ attention was focused on the headline of _The Daily Prophet_ , screaming out in all its upside down boldness only two feet in front of him.

**Headmistress McGonagall Cleared in Missing Snape Case**

It was nearly impossible to read the article upside down and with one semi-functioning eye, but read it Severus did. By the time he got to the fourth paragraph, he knew that Potter hadn’t bothered to read it himself. Or that if he had, he was about as sharp as Rubeus Hagrid on a bad day.

 _The headmistress_ , wrote Ivy Beaufort, _clearly has developed a resistance to Veritaserum, likely during her nine months at Hogwarts during the reign of You-Know-Who. When asked questions to establish whether the serum had reached full effectiveness, she claimed that Albus Dumbledore had a secret romantic relationship with Gellert Grindelwald, that Rubeus Hagrid hatched a dragon in the groundskeeper’s hut, that the Ministry of Magic allowed student Hermione Granger, a close friend of Harry Potter, to use a Time Turner during her third year at Hogwarts and that Harry Potter carried a piece of Voldemort’s soul in his head most of his life. When questioned about Snape’s disappearance, she claimed the former headmaster was scheming with the house-elves to help him escape, so she turned him into a racing broom and gave him to Harry Potter for safe-keeping._

True, true, true, true and, in the headmistress’s own words, also true.

But the issue at hand was quite serious. While most of the Wizarding public would believe the drivel in _The Prophet_ , he personally knew quite a few people who would not.

He took a long moment of serious self-examination. It was exceedingly difficult to concentrate – to prevent his thoughts from drifting off to more pleasant territory – to the oh-so-pleasant sensation of Potter’s hands caressing him, to the heady aroma of his arse against his face…. 

No! Severus gave himself a virtual shake. Focus! He had to focus. He had been amazingly calm throughout this whole ordeal – far _too_ calm, given the gravity of the situation. It was almost as if – as if - _yes_! As if he’d been given a very strong and well-crafted Calming potion. 

He was trying to puzzle out what would happen if a person was given a Calming draught and then immediately transfigured into a racing broom by a devious and cunning witch who he’d _thought_ was his friend, when two cracks of Apparition, so close together they nearly sounded like one, derailed his thoughts.

“You’ve got to actually _read_ the paper, Harry, not just scan the headlines! I knew as soon as I saw it and I asked Ron about that new broom of yours but he said you got it out of your parents’ vault yourself so it _couldn’t_ be Snape!”

“He lied for me, alright? I didn’t want you to know it was Snape’s broom. You’d have given me all sorts of trouble about it.” Potter punctuated his remarks by flopping down on the bed to a loud squeaking of bed springs. 

“Of course I’d have given you trouble about it, Harry!” exclaimed Granger. “You’ve been mooning over Snape since sixth year and….”

“I have not been mooning ….”

“You _have_! And before that, you were just _obsessed_ with him!”

Severus was positioned in such a way that he couldn’t see anything happening in the room, but he heard the sound of footsteps and definitely felt a firm, and rather angry, grip around his middle as Granger grabbed him. She carried him – not as carefully as he’d have expected – over to the bed and plopped down beside Harry.

“Look – right here.” Potter ran his fingers over the bump where his nose had begun to protrude. “And here.” 

Potter must have just pointed, for there was no caress – gentle or otherwise – of the area that had been his focus before he’d run off to fetch Granger.

Granger, who in Severus’ experience _always_ had something to say, was oddly quiet.

“And you’re sure these weren’t there yesterday?” she said at last, her voice rising to a squeak.

“I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed if my broom had bollocks!” Potter responded with sarcasm that rivaled Snape’s own.

“Right.” She was gingerly examining the broom handle above his midsection. “Oh my god – buttons!”

She screeched in a very undignified manner and pushed Severus away as if trying to get rid of a ticking bomb. He landed atop Potter, who immediately jumped up and backed away from the bed.

“What do you mean, buttons?” he said. “It didn’t have buttons when I left!”

“Well, it has buttons now!”

Severus could hear them panting a few feet away. He was face down on the bed, nose buried in Potter’s pillow. Did the boy do _nothing_ but masturbate? The smell of sex was so strong he felt a stirring in his groin. 

“Oh my god – oh my god!”

That was Granger.

“I’m going for Professor McGonagall. Don’t go anywhere!”

She was gone with a whisper of a crack and, for a long moment, the room was silent.

“Um – I don’t know if you can hear me – but – oh my god. You can’t hear me, can you? I mean – if you can – that’s new, right? You didn’t hear me the entire time I had you, did you? No. You can’t hear. You’re still transfigured. The charm is just wearing off. Oh my god – what if you’re dead? What if you didn’t survive? You’ve been a broom a long time – months. And how can you have buttons? Why would you be wearing a shirt and not pants?”

Because I was most likely wearing a nightshirt when Minerva attacked, Severus thought. He was busy smelling Potter’s pillow, and feeling a tiny bit sorry that he was very likely going to find his time in Harry Potter’s company at an end, even though it would, indeed, be nice to have his body back, and perhaps catch up on his journal reading. Life as a broom wasn’t all bad, especially when a fit young man was straddling you and flying you at exhilarating speeds.

“Professor – Snape?”

A hand touched him a few inches above his waist and flipped him over. He toppled over gently to his back and closed his eyes against the sunlight hitting the bed.

“Oh my god.”

Potter said the words slowly, reverting to a standard Muggle exclamation. Snape opened the downward pointing eye and focused on his bollocks, only to have his view blocked by the swell of a nascent penis rising just above them.

He was inordinately pleased to have his privates back, but his admiration of this new development was cut off by the arrival of Granger with Minerva.

“See!” Granger exclaimed, dragging Minerva over to the bed by a fragile wrist. Minerva, for her part, shook off her former student and stood beside the bed with arms crossed, looking half amused, half perturbed.

“We’ve had a new development,” Potter whispered, elbowing Granger.

Granger let out a sound that sounded like someone stepping on a live mouse.

“Severus, Severus, Severus.” Minerva conjured a tartan throw wandlessly and draped it over his exposed genitalia. “Severus, I know you can hear me,” she began.

“What?” Potter stepped back from the bed. He sounded horrified. “He can hear? Really?”

“Oh, most certainly. Most certainly.” Minerva, clever witch that she was, scrunched her nose and pointed with her wand to the artfully crafted and sculpted bundle of twigs at the end of the broom. “The senses wake up first, before the more obvious signs. You did notice that the broom’s bristles are virtually oozing grease, did you not?”

“Well – right. Yes. I – I thought I’d spilled broom wax. Oh my god – that’s – that’s his _hair_!” He stepped forward and Severus just knew that he wanted to touch his hair. 

“Harry! No!” Granger pulled him back and Minerva stepped forward so that she was standing as close to the bed as possible.

“Well, Severus, since you’ve managed to begin throwing off my spell, I’m going to have to release you. Do _not_ try to move. Your joints will be extremely stiff and we’ll need to massage them for you to help loosen them.”

“All of us?” squeaked Granger.

“Yes – _all_ of us,” Minerva stated emphatically. 

“Isn’t there a spell for…?”

“ _All_ of us.” Minerva frowned. “Now, Poppy administered a very powerful Calming Draught before I transfigured Severus, which has kept him nice and complacent even as his senses reawakened. But it will wear off quickly once I cancel the spell, so be prepared for the Professor Snape you know and love.”

“I don’t lo -”

“You know what she means, Harry,” snapped Granger.

“And I already tried to cancel the spell,” Potter protested.

Minerva laughed. “Oh, Harry, my boy,” she said. When had she become Albus Dumbledore? “Animate to inanimate transfiguration is tricky – very tricky. And this was a matter of life and death – I couldn’t have Severus popping back into himself while you were riding him a thousand feet above the stadium.”

Severus had his good eye locked on Potter and was gratified to see that Potter blushed when Minerva said, “Riding him.”’

“Ready then?” she asked, to no one in particular.

Harry and Granger immediately stepped back. Potter, in fact, partially hid behind Granger.

Minerva twirled her wand in a very complicated pattern, then pointed it at him. A spray of green and gold sparks shot out and rained down on him. He quivered on the bed, teeth shaking, then rose a foot or so into the air before everything went black. He swore he turned inside out before he dropped down like a brick onto the bed, his old-fashioned nightshirt with its long row of bone buttons billowing out around him on the mattress.

Everything hurt.

“Ooooooff!” 

The word came out as a raspy wheeze as Severus inhaled his first satisfying lungful of air in months. 

“Quick!” Minerva dropped onto the bed beside him and began to massage his wrists and elbows. “Legs, please, Harry, Hermione,” she snapped.

She continued to vigorously rub his arms and coax his wrists and elbows into obtuse angles. It was too much, and not enough.

Not enough, apparently, because Granger had obligingly started to work on his left leg, but Potter remained frozen, staring straight at his midsection with a gobsmacked look on his face.

Severus frowned, and strained to lift his head a few inches off the bed, looking down at the area of Potter’s focus.

Interesting.

His nightshirt was tented, his cock, wooden up to moments before, still majestically erect.

Severus rolled his eyes and dropped his head back onto the bed.

ooOOOoo

Two hours later, Severus was still in Potter’s bed. Potter, who’d turned out to be a more than adequate masseur, had taken over when Granger left to make her last class and Minerva had gone back to Hogwarts to fetch some of Severus’ things. Potter settled with one knee on either side of Severus’ thighs, facing his feet with arse waggling at him as he worked his quadriceps.

Severus thought it was a very nice view.

“I wasn’t able to hear the entire time,” Severus said as Harry worked down from his thighs onto his calves. “Though I do understand that Miss Weasley is no longer in the picture and you’ve been introduced to the London club scene.”

The marvelous hands stilled for a moment, then moved to the other calf, rubbing zealously.

“It’s not Ginny’s fault,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Severus said.

“It isn’t her fault!” Potter turned his head to look back at Severus. His glasses were crooked on his face and his hair was sticking up from the top of his head. “I – I wasn’t ready to commit.”

“To a woman,” Severus said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Well – yeah. Right.” Potter blushed. “We could still get together – later. When we’re a bit older.”

“Hmph.” Severus shifted. “Come up here and work on my shoulders.”

Potter obeyed without argument, sitting cross-legged between Severus middle and the edge of the bed. “I didn’t say anything mean about you,” he said as he began to work one shoulder. “I mean – you couldn’t really hold it against me even if I did. I didn’t know the broom was you. Did – did I – ” He blushed and averted his eyes from Severus, staring at his hands as they kneaded Severus’ dormant flesh. He took a deep breath. “Did I hurt you at all – when I … flew?”

Severus closed his eyes, remembering the thrill of the ride, the wind in his hair, Potter’s strong thighs closing in on him from either side. He remembered the exhilaration of the ride and the warm weight of flesh on and around him.

“No. You didn’t. I love to fly.”

He couldn’t keep the longing from his voice. Flying. On a broom. Without a broom. The freedom of defying gravity. The dangerous speed. Stepping off a precipice, dropping like a stone, then pulling up just in time.

Potter’s hands had stilled on his shoulders.

“Good.” He swallowed. “I do, too.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, and something that felt like understanding passed between them.

ooOOOoo

Minerva had a very good idea. It wasn’t safe quite yet to set Severus loose in the British Wizarding world. Lying low a while longer was the prudent course of action.

In short order, Harry Potter was traded to an American team and signed a two-year contract to play first reserve Seeker with the Santa Fe Kokopellis.

He took with him his wand, his Invisibility Cloak, and a classic racing broom. 

He bought a new recreational broom when he arrived, and uttered the carefully practiced spell Minerva had taught him over the old one. He didn’t need to spend quite so much time working on Severus’ stiff joints and sore muscles this time, but he spent it anyway.

And Severus melted into life in the desert, gathering ingredients, brewing when it suited him to do so, and catching up on his reading. 

And of course, he taught Harry to fly.

Severus didn’t miss being a broom.

He had Harry Potter largely to himself now, strong thighs around his middle, tantalizing arse in form-fitting Quidditch leathers, riding him in bed instead of in the air. 

“I used to stand you up in the corner,” Harry said after the first week in their desert home in Santa Fe. “I bet you hated that.”

“Not especially,” Severus answered distractedly as he poked at a cactus he’d dug up from the backyard.

“Well, you had to hate when I left you face down on my mattress,” he suggested.

“Only when I couldn’t breathe,” Severus said. “I liked your smell.”

“Did you?” Harry stopped in front of him, on the other side of the coffee table.

“I didn’t like your socks, though.”

“I imagine you didn’t.” And Harry lifted one socked foot and very deliberately placed it on Severus’ knee.

“Hmm,” said Severus. Harry thought that spending several long months as a broom had significantly improved his disposition. Severus raised his hand to grasp Harry’s ankle, and rubbed it with his thumb.

It was invitation enough. 

Harry took the cactus from Severus’ hand, placed it on the table, and pushed the table back before kneeling on the sofa, straddling Severus’ thighs. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Harry said, leaning in to press dry lips against Severus’ mouth. “But I definitely want to do it with you.”

Fortunately, making love, like flying, came easily to Harry Potter.

In short order, Harry was naked, face down on the couch, and Severus, remembering and evoking the marvelous broom ride when his nose started to grow, had his face buried in Harry’s arse.

And while Severus didn’t talk much, communicating mainly with lifts of his eyebrow and quirks of his lips, Harry was a very vocal lover.

He had to beg Severus to take him, while Severus murmured that he wasn’t ready yet, that they had plenty of time ahead of them, and dozens of options for gratification besides intercourse. 

Harry wasn’t interested in any other options.

In the end, Severus gave in. 

But he wanted Harry on top of him, riding his cock, strong thighs pressed tightly against him. He wanted to feel pinned down while flying free, safe while soaring through dangerous skies, confined yet in control. 

He was a classic broom, perfectly styled and powerful, and Harry had the raw skill and natural talent to take him to new heights.

It was a symbiotic relationship, and sex came as naturally to them as flying.

Harry, sinking down on him, inch by glorious inch, owning it, owning the act. Biting his lip, holding himself up with thighs as tough as steel, eyes locked on Severus, hand splayed on Severus’ belly, creeping up to cover his heart.

And Severus held back, bit back the desire to pound up into Harry. Let Harry ride him until the wind deafened him, and the speed blinded him, and the dizzying heights made him spiral out of control. 

And in the end, after the sun above them went supernova, and they exploded together into the firmament beyond, they lay tangled together, a man newly made, a man transfigured.

Forever and always – a boy and his broom.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3678935.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1623445.html), or [Dreamwidth](http://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/926196.html).


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